


Appetites of the Flesh

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Graphic Description of Corpses, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will gets aroused at murder scenes. Eventually this gets noticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetites of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hannibal kink meme.

_New Orleans – a few years ago_

 It hit him low in his gut, like a train rolling by after midnight, stirring you from sleep. Will Graham stood in the apartment of one Angela Geary, thirty-four and now deceased, murdered two days ago.

He’d slept with Casey Atkins three days previously, the aftereffects of that still lingering in him, so the fact of it didn’t hit Will until later. Arousal, that pleasant sharpening of the blade against the whetstone.

Except he was standing in front a dissected corpse, her right arm curled over her belly, cupping her innards. The curve of her hand was arranged like a vase, holding the rose of her viscera.  

“She had friends,” Collins commented, glancing around the apartment. Will didn’t like Collins much; the man was loud and smelled like fried onions. He never saw anything in the bodies.

“Lots of friends,” Will observed. He looked at the photos stuck to her fridge. “They’ll come to the funeral, but they won’t miss her. She’s on the peripheral of their group.” Only her widowed mother would truly miss her.

“Jesus, you’re morbid.” Collins snapped his gum.

Will turned away.

He took a shower after work and saw the woman smiling up at him from her kitchen floor, her entrails blossoming before his eyes into a full-blown garden.

Will shook his head and she vanished. Water coursed down his face. Will scrubbed at his cheeks, and spat the bile in his mouth down the drain.

Casey called him back the next day. He let the call go to voice mail, the memory of her nails on his back mixing with the image of the corpse.  

*  *  *

It happened again after that. Not every crime scene, not every corpse. He wasn’t that much of a freak, simply turned on by the sight of death. There had to be precision. Talent. Something that triggered that urge in his brain. It was the hand at work, not the act.

Will took to wearing baggy pants for a while. That helped, but didn’t solve anything.

Sometimes he jerked off as soon as he got home to his apartment, hand working himself into a hot frenzy of frustration and lust.

Sometimes he let it wither away, forcing it down. _Wrong._ He indulged it sometimes, but who was he hurting? _Wrong_ , his brain still reminded him.

*  *  *

_Now._

It wasn’t the bodies. It was the design.

That’s what he told himself anyway.

It had started up again after Jack Crawford cajoled him into lending his imagination. Will stood in the field with the girl impaled upon the antlers. The wind whipped at his face, but his groin was hot, standing there with the grass around his ankles and the cawing of the crow.

It was sick; he was sick. This wasn’t done by the hunter they were looking for, but the careful mimicking strokes made him harden anyway. The arrangement was a near perfect replica, but one done so obviously it was clear it was someone else. This murder was an invitation, an encouragement, someone spurring him on toward something.

The fact that Will didn’t figure out who the copycat was bothered him almost as much as killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs had. Whoever it was, was still out there. Waiting.

*  *  *

It was easier to control now. Had been for a while.

He hadn’t had sex in over a year, but he’d come to realize that sexual interaction had little effect on the concepts in his brain. It was more that no one sparked his interest; he kept his eyes off teachers and students alike.

Until he saw Hannibal Lecter looking at him.

Will went to see him at Jack’s bidding. It wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. In fact, it was better. Lecter was strangely easy to interact with. He stimulated certain reactions in Will that were impossible to ignore. So Will didn’t deny them and Lecter moved closer into Will’s circle.

*  *  *

Will thought sometimes about blowing Lecter in his office. Going to his knees, running his fingers up the inseams of Lecter’s pants, pressing his mouth to the bulge that he liked to find there in his dreams. Lecter never appeared aroused by him, or anything else for that matter.

He shrugged it off and tried not to think about it during waking hours.

*  *  *

At first the dead mocked him in his dreams. Later they don’t even have the decency to remain there, wandering over into the daylight, bold as brass.

“You want to fuck her.” Hobbs stood behind him, hands in his pockets, like it was an ordinary afternoon.  

“No.” Will examined the corpse of a seventeen year old girl they’d found strung out on a fence post.

April, still chilly. Will pulled the collar of his jacket up. The girl was wearing a sweater and a skirt, the barbed wire intricately laced through the fabric. You didn’t even notice the blood at first, due to the dark tones of the sweater.

“Stick your dick in her.”

Will ignored him, studying the cuts on her neck. A design, carefully etched into her pale skin. Calligraphy, the killer’s name entwined with hers, he realized belatedly. Beautifully done.

There it was, his dick hot against his thigh, eager as ever.

“Sicko.” Satisfaction laced Hobbs’s voice.

Will pushed his glasses back up and backed away from the corpse.

They caught the killer a week later, and his interest fades. Some kid who got caught up in the fact that he thought his girlfriend was cheating on him.

“Now she’ll remember me forever.” The young man sobbed as they led him away in cuffs.

He was a pathetic mess, but Will still saw the girl in his dreams that night, waking with his hand between his legs and his sheets damp with semen.

*  *  *

Will didn’t think about because as long as there’s no lasting effects it couldn’t truly matter. No one had to know.

He remembered one crime scene. An early one in his career as a cop. The way his dick had swelled at the swath of blood across the pastel carpet. The blood improved it, he had thought. Then there was the body hanging from the chandelier, limbs spread, the noose still held firm as it swayed back and forth. Will pulled his jacket down slightly and stepped back.

No one said anything about his behavior. It wasn’t a difficult case to solve. He left early.

*  *  *

He thought once about telling Hannibal, (it was Hannibal now, not Dr. Lecter), but that would probably be a mistake. Either the man would think he’d need help and recommend that Crawford remove him from casework, or worse he’d think that Will needed serious help.

Will couldn’t risk it.

Instead he fumbled his way through his sessions with Hannibal, convinced each time that Hannibal could look straight through him and see the deep rooted perversion lurking there.

*  *  *

It was inevitable really that one day Hannibal would be there to witness it. Will hadn’t taken that into account.

The body was splayed open with thin slits all across the torso. Despite the deliberate violence, his face was peaceful and still. _Calm_. Will craved calm. He closed his eyes, watched the repose steal over the man as the killer strangled him so carefully before cutting his way through the skin. Arousal crawled over his own skin, like the calm he craved so desperately.

Will didn’t think about it until he opened his eyes and saw Hannibal watching him with an unreadable expression. An astute assessment, never so crass as to openly eye Will’s crotch, but he could hardly have missed the jut of his cock there against his jeans. Will resisted the urge to tug his shirt down. Why, oh why had he worn those jeans?

Hannibal made no comment and Will turned his attention back to the corpse.

*  *  *

The second time Hannibal caught him, it was worse. The blood had pooled around the corpse. The chest ripped open, done with a letter opener, blunt but purposeful. Half the face was sliced off, revealing bone. There the artistry simply failed as though the killer had lost patience or vision halfway through the act.

“He’ll try to recapture it, but he’s losing control. It’ll be messier next time.” Will stripped off his gloves, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“You know,”

“No.” He shut Jack down. “It’s not that simple.” He couldn’t see any clean design.It frustrated him, settling uncomfortably in his groin, an itch hovering there. Will wanted to stick his hand down his pants, but that would undoubtedly be noticed.

Hannibal stood a few feet away, silent and watchful as ever.

Will eyed him for a second, and realized belatedly. “He didn’t finish the postscript.” That was it. “He’s trying to write a farewell letter, and he can’t get it right.” The realization made him sick and he moved away from the crime scene to vomit in a bush.

The heaving churn of his guts, the heat in his groin, Will pressed his hand against his crotch and his other to his mouth. It was too late. He could feel the hot stain spreading across the front of his pants. He retched more, unable to keep it in.

“Here.” Hannibal appeared beside him, offering a handkerchief.

Will wiped his mouth, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Thanks.” There was no point in hiding it now.

“Go home, Will.” Lecter held out his coat. “I’ll tell Jack you’re unwell.”

Will looked at him, embarrassment flooding his eyes. He accepted the coat, holding it in front of his crotch. “I…”

“You can return it to me on Friday.” Lecter’s hand rested on his shoulder for a moment, and then it was gone.

*  *   *

On Friday Will went to his appointment with Hannibal, who held the door for him, then took his usual seat and watched him pace around the office as he usually did, before speaking.  
  
“Does that happen often?”  
  
“What?” Will stuck his hands in his pockets. He knew exactly what Hannibal was referring to, and he wasn’t looking forward to discussing it. The fact that it needed to be discussed was evident. No doubt Hannibal was trying to decide what to do.  
  
“You. Getting aroused at a murder scene.” Hannibal said the words calmly as though it were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps he thought it was for Will.  
  
“I don’t,” Will kept his face averted. Why bother denying it? Hannibal _knew._  
  
“It was quite evident.” There was no judgment in Hannibal’s voice.  
  
Will relaxed a fraction, but the words still stand out like an accusation across his face. “To everyone?”  
  
“No, I’m sure if anyone else had noticed, they’d have mentioned it.”  
  
Will nodded to himself.  That’s what he thought. They weren’t the type to keep quiet about something like that. Katzr might take him aside to ask him what the hell was going on, but Zeller wouldn’t lose a chance to humiliate him. “So why didn’t you?” He took a seat opposite Hannibal.  
  
Hannibal looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I was curious as to what you thought about it?”  
  
“I think,” Will shook his head. “It’s.” He couldn’t explain it, not without sounding like a pervert.  
  
“The artistry stimulates you.” Hannibal stated. “Your body is betrayed by your desires.”  
  
“I don’t, want…that.” He started to shake slightly. The sick guilt rose up in his throat, threatening to strangle him.  
  
“Of course not, the sight of this is enough to excite you.” Hannibal leaned back. “Tell me, Will, how often do you masturbate after seeing death so prettily arranged?”  
  
Will’s cheeks flushed with heat. “That’s.” _None of your business. Not relevant. Not true. None of the above?_  
  
“Once? Twice? More? With your cock thrusting into your fist?”  
  
“I don’t.” Will flexed his hands. Just hearing Hannibal talk about it was having an effect; it made him hot all over.  
  
“Do you picture yourself in their position?”  
  
“No,” Will turned away. No, he didn’t.  
  
“Do you imagine yourself as the killer?” Hannibal pushed further, voice even and calm. “Imposing your lewd desires upon their vulnerable flesh?”  
  
“That’s not. It doesn’t.” Will’s head was so hot; he couldn’t think. He pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes before putting them back on. “It’s their talent. I see it, imagine them, and yes, it arouses me, but it’s not like that.”  
  
“Murder arouses you.” Hannibal stated. “Imagine your fingers trailing through the blood of the young man from earlier, moving over your erection.”  
  
Will shuddered. It would stain, leaving steaks of blood on his thigh.  
  
“It excites you, seeing their designs. ”  
  
Will hung his head. What was the point in denying it? Hannibal could see through him as surely as he were transparent.  
  
“The tapestries are created and then you’re made to enter them. But the fact of the matter is, you enjoy it, even though you don’t care to admit it. You like walking amongst the halls of the dead.”  
  
Hannibal smoothed the lapels of his coat, his skin pale against the dark cloth. “Have you ever fucked someone while thinking about a murder, Will?”  
  
Will recoiled at the words, blunt, crude, on Hannibal's cultured tongue. “I,” A flutter of memory against his eyelids. _Skin, warm skin._  
  
“Of course you have.” Hannibal already knew. “Tell me.”  
  
“Just once.” His skin crawled at the memory. “I couldn’t separate it…the victim was so lovely, so peaceful, curled up like a woodland animal, and I.”  
  
“You called someone, a woman, who didn’t matter to you, except you knew she’d be receptive.”  
  
“It wasn’t like that.” Will said, desperate to make Hannibal understand. “It’s not the murders.” Hannibal has to believe him.  
  
“Of course not. It’s the artistry.” Hannibal nodded understandingly. “How did it feel?”  
  
“Cold. Halfway through I started shivering, like I couldn’t draw a warm breath, and she held me. I was drowning in her heat and that’s what he had done, felt so cold that he had to cling to a life instead he snuffed it out.”  
  
The front of his pants was damp with pre-come, his cock straining and rubbing fruitlessly. Will’s hand fluttered down to try to hide it, then stopped. What did it matter?  
  
“You are irresistibly attracted to the finesses of psychopaths.” Hannibal tilted his head. “What do you think Jack Crawford would do if he knew about this vile inclination of yours?”  
  
Will flinched. “He doesn’t. He…” He leaned back. “Are you going to tell him?”  
  
“No.” Hannibal murmured. “Telling Jack would serve no purpose.”  
  
Will leaned forward in his chair, staring down at the carpet.  
  
"It doesn't help them." Hannibal pointed out. "You're doing this only for yourself."  
  
"I'm not doing it intentionally." Will snapped. Was he? He's not. He wouldn't. "It's just a reaction."  
  
"Even so, a particularly unhealthy one."  
  
"What am I supposed to do about it? I can't switch it off." He stood, half with the intention of leaving, but the way Hannibal just looked up at him froze him in place.  
  
“It never takes long, does it? You’re so close by the time you touch yourself, a few strokes and you’re done.”  
  
Will flattened his hand hard against his crotch, pressing the heel to his hard-on. Hannibal watched him.  
  
“The stage is already set, the players in their places. All you have to do is raise the curtain.”  
  
Will blinked. His hand was down his pants, moving hurriedly, as though if he stops, it’ll be real.  
  
“Each stroke only takes you deeper into the minds of the killers.”  
  
Will shuddered, even as his hand moved faster. No, he wasn’t like that.  
  
“Into their hearts.” Hannibal gazed at him unrelenting. “Can you feel them, Will?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Hannibal stood, moving around him. “Why are you lying? There’s only you and I in the room. Here, you can admit it.”  
  
“No,” Will shut his eyes. “It’s not, I’m not,” his cock jerked in his grip, his knees weakened. He was so close, and then there’s the faintest brush of a touch along the back of his neck, like someone running the curve of a fingernail over his skin.  
  
Hannibal leaned in. “You see yourself as part of the design.”  
  
Will choked, throat closing up as he came, hips trembling with the rush.  
  
Hannibal stepped back.  
  
Will couldn’t turn around. He stood there, until finally, he drew his hand out of his pants.  
  
“Will.”  
  
He didn’t want to look, but Hannibal’s voice makes him. Hannibal held out the box of tissue from his desk. It was the most natural thing in the world for a psychiatrist to do, and yet possibly the most incongruous situation for it.  
  
He accepted a tissue, muttering, “Thank you.” There was nothing to be done about the stain on his pants.  Just one more thing to put on his freak list, jerking himself off in front of his psychiatrist.  
  
...who had talked him into it, talked him _through_ it.  
  
Will blinked.  
  
"You like it too.” He looked at Hannibal in surprised realization. “The violence of the designs.” Hannibal didn’t deny it, he continued,” You like it just as much as me. Maybe more."  
  
"I never said I didn't." Hannibal set the tissues aside and looked at him.  
  
Will stood there, unsure of whether that was as truly comforting as he found it to be, or just one further step down this path wherever it was leading.


End file.
